They got out and scanned the street. The wide pavement was busy with shoppers, hawkers flogging hats and brollies, tourists and paper-sellers, queues waiting for buses, a band of African drummers were working the gardens, the music carrying to where Rachel stood.
Rachel tried Lisa’s number and she and Mitch watched the passers-by to see if anyone chose that moment to answer their phone. Nothing. Plenty of people had their handsets glued to the side of their heads, but neither of them saw anyone answer a call – though someone did answer. ‘’Lo?’ a female voice. Rachel didn’t reply. Didn’t want to spook whoever had the phone before they had them in their sights. Rachel surveyed the nearby properties. A newsagent’s, a gaming parlour, a bank, a kebab shop.
‘Let’s start in there.’ She signalled to the gaming parlour. Somewhere to chuck good money after bad, as far as Rachel was concerned. Losers spending their benefits the same day they got them. The place was murky inside, impossible to tell whether it was day or night, the carpeted floor sticky underfoot. The clatter of slot machines and the clamour of sound effects from the games made it impossible to hear much else. Rachel, Mitch at her elbow, scoped the aisles. There was a mishmash of people, all ages, most down-at-heel. Some solos, others in couples or little groups. Rachel dialled the number again, heard the ringing sound in her ear and watched. She saw a girl respond. One of a trio at the end of the room round a fruit machine, tarted up as if for a night out: short skirts, low-cut tops, back-combed hair, thick glittery make-up. The slutty look. Never know it was winter. Two blondes, little and large, and a redhead. It was the big blonde that had moved.
‘Back wall,’ Rachel said to Mitch. ‘Watch her.’ Rachel saw the girl slide the phone open and glance at the display. Hesitate, scowling at the number, then answer. Her voice was guarded, ‘Yeah?’
‘Can I have a word?’ Rachel said over the phone, closing the distance between them.
‘Who is it?’ the blonde said, frowning with uncertainty.
‘DC Bailey,’ Rachel said as she reached the trio, closing her phone, ‘and DC Ian Mitchell, Manchester Metropolitan Police.’ She showed her warrant card.
‘I’m eighteen, for fuck’s sake,’ the girl said, thinking they were after her for playing the slots.
‘I don’t care,’ Rachel said. ‘Step this way.’
‘What the-?’ The girl was all bluster and outrage. Her friends, swapping sideways glances, uneasy.
